“Yes,” he says quietly. “I think I can, Bellona.”

My breath catches. I feel a knot in my stomach. Of course, it’s not my birth name—he doesn’t know that. But it isn’t information I’ve given him either. “How did you know?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow . . . in the morning.” He comes to my side, reaches up, pushes my hair behind my shoulders. “Tonight I want to know if you’re like your namesake. Are you a goddess of war?”

“I’m not a goddess,” I say quietly.

“And yet I bet you’d hold your own on a battlefield.” His fingers slide down my neck. I expect him to lean in for a kiss again, but he doesn’t. Instead he just lets his fingers go to the scooped neckline of my dress, tracing it lightly, watching me. When his fingers move lower, over my dress, over the curve of my breast, I look away.

“No, no, warrior,” he whispers, taking his other hand and turning my face back to him. “Keep your eyes on me. I want you to see me seeing you. I want you to look into my eyes when I touch you.”

Part of me wants to say no. I hadn’t planned for this level of intimacy. I don’t know how to handle it.

But this is the path I’ve chosen. It’s a path that can lead me to my revenge. And without revenge I have nothing. My whole life will be nothing.

His fingers continue to caress, running up and down my breasts. I feel my nipples harden. The fabric of my dress is thick enough to conceal them and yet as he looks down at me I’m sure he knows. It’s in his smile, in the mischievous glint in his eyes.

His hands move lower, over my stomach, lower to the hem of my dress, then just below it, forcing his hand between my legs as I lean my back against the window, suddenly needing support. The glass is so clean it looks like I’m leaning against air itself, as if I’m on the verge of falling.

Maybe I am.

Slowly he raises his hand, raising my dress again as he does. The feeling of his palm against the inside of my leg makes me squirm, but as instructed I keep my eyes on his, watching him watching me.

“Do you know what I’m going to do next, Bellona?”

I nod.

“Tell me.”

“You’re going to move your hand up . . . to my thong.”

“And when I touch your thong, will it be wet?”

My heart is beating at an uncomfortable pace. “Yes,” I whisper.

His hand goes up, touches my panties, moving back and forth. It’s such a thin strip of fabric, no protection at all, really.

“Ah,” he says with a smile, “an honest woman.”